Funeral

Now the front seat is empty; a yellow streetlight flickers; a cigarette meets her mouth and a silk blanket slides down her bare shoulders. Her empty gaze meets the glass mirror, framed and engraved with stones that only glimmer in the light. She, a muffled siren, mourns in secret, kissed by another tame visitor that marks her skin—finally to fall asleep next to her unchaste figure that weeps in disguise. The seventeenth minute wakes this sleeping neighbor up and he reaches out a hand to invite the sleep deprived. Sometimes a dreary melody of sitar accompanies her unkindly pursuit and she lights the penultimate coffin nail that dies shortly in a silver ashtray by her bed. The front seat remains empty still and her dead gaze does not turn to the window.

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We are who we are: simple seekers of creativity related to the language of expression. It's a private initiative to encourage creative writing in all forms: words, pictures, sketches, speech, video et al.